That Girl Is Like A Sunburn
by Lone Tube Sock
Summary: AU. It's been two years since Spencer shook up Ashley's entire existence. How did things get so screwed up along the way?
1. The Beginning of the End

_Fuck her._ It's written all over my sneering lips in pomegranate lip gloss. Her golden hair's trussed up in an immaculate pony tail—I want to knot my fingers in those perfect strands and tug, make her smiling mouth twist into an even more perfect gasp. She loves it. You can't tell it by her cheerleading uniform, but she's a dirty girl. Filthy, even.

Spencer's got the sweetest face. Even if she committed a string of atrocious acts, streamed it live on the 5 o'clock evening news, a jury wouldn't convict her on account of that face. Her pretty veneer says she's innocence personified; the poster-child of morality. I know better. When she comes looking for me with _wet _panties and a hankering for those nasty, torrid things we do, her typically coy blue eyes are rife with fire and brimstone.

I'm on the bleachers, unabashedly eye fucking her with the rest of the depraved spectators. The cheerleading squad is engaged in an overtly sexual dance routine. I think Madison's true calling is choreography, you know, strip clubs, exceptionally racy burlesque shows, or perhaps even some sort of slutty musical, assuming there's a venue for slutty musicals?

The heat emanating off her writhing body smudges out her immediate surroundings like a mirage on a hot, dusty day. I swear the air around her is blistering, hissing out complaints, begging for a cool respite. I grit my teeth. I can't stand looking at her with all this want and not reaching out to touch… trace my palms up her smooth legs and over her supple ass.

I'm the only one in the parking lot. It took some slick maneuvering to get past the abnormally dense crowds without grazing a boner, but voila, here I am. I'm stretched out against the hood of my car with a small pile of half-spent cigarettes littered at my feet. I took up smoking to pass the monotony between our trysts. Her poison isn't much better than the shit in these cigarettes. Either way, she'll kill me. I figure, why not take the edge off from Point A to, well, death?

"Let's go." It's her.

"Did you fall off the top of the pyramid and bump your head? The game's not even over yet." I give her a discreet eyeballing and take a pull of my cigarette.

Spencer advances slowly. She knows how to roll her hips just right. It's utterly sinful. She steals my cigarette and takes a long drag. "I didn't know you were so concerned with entertaining our team's fans," she says it pleasantly. She moves closer. Her exposed midriff touches mine. Her skin's warm and slightly sticky from the effort expended during the half-time show. "I told Madison there was a family emergency. If it's any consolation, one of the better qualified alternates will be filling my position at the top of the pyramid." The corners of her mouth are furled upwards, beckoning my temper, stoking it.

"Get in the fucking car. Give me that, will you?" I reclaim my cigarette and toss it on the asphalt as she ducks into the passenger's side seat.

We don't say anything to each other, but I can feel her peeking at me with earnest eyes. The scope provided by my peripheral vision helps me register that she's twirling a strand of hair around her finger, and that the corner of her bottom lip is snared between her teeth. She's contemplating something… and then she makes up her mind, and her fingers are popping my jeans open.

The car swerves, but I quickly jerk it back in line. "Jesus," I hiss.

Her hand snakes down the front of my pants. She's rubbing her fingers along my panties. The strokes are deliberately slow. "Stop antagonizing me," I breathe.

She pushes the flimsy material aside and shoves two fingers into me. I screw my eyes shut, momentarily forgetting about our mortality and the disconcerting fact that I'm driving. "Is that better?" Her tone's light and amiable, like she's asking me if the temperature is okay.

_Bitch_… The word is dangling off the tip of my tongue, but the way she's fucking me warrants a pardoning. I hear her unfastening her seat belt, and feel her lips on my neck. Her tongue licks at my pulse point. Her teeth nip in time with the thrusting between my legs. She curls her fingers, crooks them at my g-spot. My hands are tense and shaking around the steering wheel.

Soon it's not enough for her. Her fingers leave my center, and she tugs at my jeans. I lift my hips up off the leather seat to help her, and she quickly rolls them past my knees. Her fingers, the ones sticky from fucking me, paint circles on my stomach. My abs tighten and flex wherever her fingers go, so responsive to her touch. Spencer's hands pry my legs open, wide as they'll go given the seating constraints. Her face is close to my wetness now. So close I can feel her ragged pants teasing my clit. "You smell good," she says. I chance taking my eyes off the road to look at her. She has her fingers in her mouth, the ones that were inside me just seconds ago… her tongue's making these wet sucking sounds, and her eyes have got me so completely captivated that I'm holding my breath. "Can I have more, Ash?" she whispers. "_Please?_" The breath I've been holding escapes my shuddering body. I pray to God that we don't get into a wreck. Just let us live one more day so that I can finish fucking the self-righteousness out of Spencer. _Just one more day_… I pray to Santa Clause and the Tooth Fairy too. If I'm going to bother asking a favor from some fictitious omnipresent effigy, broadening my list of addressees can't hurt my odds, right?

"_Pretty please?_" Her words pull me back into this smoldering reality. The desire weighing me down is almost insufferable--_almost_. I love it when she begs me. She drags the tip of her nose against my clit. The contact is barely an airy impression, but it forces a strangled moan out of me. "Ashley?" She's waiting on me, on the answer so plainly evident to both of us. God, I love Spencer's loyal obedience. It's exclusively reserved for these furtive occasions.

I clutch at a tight fistful of her hair, and yank her head back so that I can see her eyes. She winces but plasters a haughty smile over the grimace. "I wish your cheerleading squad could see you like this," I growl. "Madison wouldn't be too pleased, would she? If cavorting with the enemies can get you suspended from the squad, I wonder what your beloved captain would do if she knew you were fucking the enemy? Better yet, begging for permission to get me off with your mouth? Hm?"

Her smile grows wider. Her eyes are a hazy, lust drunk blue. They twinkle so prettily. "Can I?" is all she says.

I push her head between my legs in answer. She gives my clit wet, open mouthed kisses. Her tongue's flicking and rubbing at my hard nub, and she's softly sucking it between her lips. She moans and pants and I can feel every delectable vibration... It doesn't take long for me to come. When I let her sit back up, her face is flushed and sticky. She leans over and gives me a kiss, a fleeting, teasing morsel. Spencer makes sure I'm watching as she licks my excess wetness off her lips. "Greedy girl," I say, husky as anything.

It wasn't always like _this_. _We _weren't always like this. I'm not sure how it happened; I don't know the exact coordinates of the residual twists and turns culminating in these controlled, impersonal fucks. The notion irks me enough to hurl the car around and drive her home. She's as confused as I am when I pull up at her curb. "Ash?" she questions.

"Get out, Spencer."

"But—"

"Get out." I reach over and open the car door for her.

She stiffens, and I can tell the message has been received. She doesn't look at me, not once, as she stumbles out the car, or tramples up the lawn, or unlocks her front door. I feel an unsettling emotion sprout in my guts, and then reverberate all the way up to my chest, where it chooses to wallow. I know I'll be up for days, doing something I haven't done in a long while--trying to dissect the very nature of Spencer and I.

_Two Years Earlier_

It's two weeks before the start of my senior year and I'm multi-tasking: working on the finishing touches of my tan and nursing a positively catastrophic hang over. I imagine the throbbing behind my eyelids resembles something akin to Godzilla's Tokyo rampage. Summertime kicked my liver's ass up and down the block many, many times over.

I'm rolling my eyes behind my shades. My mother has yet to shut up about her best friend, Paula something-or-other, ever since she found out the woman was picking up her ideal family and relocating to Los Angeles. Mom gives me the impression that Paula shits sunbeams, general merriment, and jelly beans—not the gross liquorish kind either.

Paula's shipping her daughter out here to spend a week with us before the rest of the Brady clan arrives. In all honesty, I nodded off during Mom's explanation, but I'm sure the reasoning is perfectly sound. The girl's supposed to arrive today. She's actually due at any minute now. Mom thought it'd be fun to have a limo pick her up from the airport, so now we're just waiting, twiddling our fucking thumbs, having canceled our more interesting plans, just throwing away the steadily ticking vestiges of my summer vacation, all for this mystery girl. She better have some redeeming quality.

On the up side? I do appreciate courier services. Sometimes courier services remedy the munchies, or enable me to make discreet online purchases. Today, a courier service saved me an annoying trip to the stuffy airport. Who doesn't adore convenience anyway? It certainly bolsters, maybe even cultivates, instant gratification, which only happens to be, like, _the_ greatest love of my life. I'm a hedonist, and virtually anything that promotes my way of life automatically gets an 'I'm Ashley Davies, and I approve of this message' seal.

Someone, presumably our maid, knocks on the French doors leading out to our expansive balcony. I don't bother looking. It would just further agitate my hang over, so I keep my eyes screwed shut. "Oh my Gosh, you must be Spencer," is the next thing I hear. My mom sounds entirely plastic. If I hadn't spent the majority of the morning barfing out the alcoholic lubricant of last night's debauchery, I would have barfed then.

I pop one eye open, and squint at the girl. She's not hard to look at by a long shot, and I find myself giving her a calculating once over. "Ashley," whines Mom, "Say hello to Spencer."

I push my shades up and give her a half-hearted wave. "Hello Spencer," I parrot.

For some curious reason her cheeks flush a dark crimson. Isn't she precious? I can't help but toy with the girl. I push down my case of the hurlies and give her the sultriest wink I can muster. Spencer ducks her head, and before long Mom's appointing me head of the welcome committee, obligating an Ashley-guided house tour.

The help has already brought her bags up to her room. "This is it," I sigh. "I hope the accommodations aren't too shabby." I'm clearly joking.

"N-no. It's perfect, really. I've never stayed somewhere so…," she trails off, and I wait patiently for her to finish, "… luxurious?"

"Luxurious?" I giggle. "Seriously? My mom would be totally elated to hear that. Personally, I think this place reeks pompous ass."

She sits down on her bed, and I lean against the door way. "Do you go to King High?" she asks, redirecting the painfully sluggish train that is our conversation.

"Affirmative."

"Cool. I mean, I'll be going there too."

"Right. I figured. What year are you in?"

"I'll be a freshman."

No way. "No way. Well, you know what that means."

She stares at me. "No?"

"It means any and all prospects of a friendship between us have, like, officially died."

"Why?" So naïve.

I roll my eyes. "For one, I'm a senior; you're a freshman. You'd be totally beneath me, unless you're inducted into the "in" crowd, of course. Two, from what I've heard of your pristine little family, you're most likely guaranteed a slot. Right off the bat, we're on different social tiers. Associating with me automatically gives you a diagnosis of social leprosy. If you give a shit about your image or likeability factor, which I imagine to be so, you won't want to tarnish your precious reputation."

The maturity of her ensuing words is sobering. "You're passing judgment on me based on stories you heard about my family?" She's not glaring, just staring at me with disappointment. I know that look. Disappointed gazes have become as familiar as ketchup. "What gives you the right? Are you completely ignorant?"

This kid makes me feel stupid. She can't be older than 14, and she's making me out to look like the biggest fucking turd on the planet. It really pisses me off. I do the only thing I can do when I'm pissed, shoot off at the mouth. "The only reason why I'm even putting up with your lameness in the first place is because my evil mother threatened to take away my car. Do you think I'd be gritting my teeth and trying to play nice if there wasn't a proverbial gun to my head? Think again, princess," I laugh, mainly to cover up my shame. "I'm out of here."

_Jesus, that kid has something coming to her._ I'm in Aiden's basement, recounting the stand-off. "Yeah," he snorts. "The hots from you."

"That is so not funny. Why is that funny?"

"She just seems like your type is all. Besides, name the last time you went off on a rabid rant about some girl?"

Touché, Dennison. "Right, well shut up. It's still not funny." I give up my pacing to plop down on the Love Sac. And ew, a whole world of no, perverts, it has nothing to do with that certain sagilicious part of the male anatomy. It's only one of the most functionally comfortable pieces of unconventional furniture in the history of.

"I didn't know you were into cradle robbing, Ashley," he laughs, shooting a ball into his mini basketball hoop. _Swoosh_. "I would have given you those Chuck E. Cheese coupons my mom brings home all the time."

"Ass. I'm not--I'm not into her, alright?"

"Okay, if you're not into her, mind if I go for it?" He waggles his eyebrows at me like some prehistoric playboy—Hugh Heffner maybe? "You know we've got identical palates and from the way you're carrying on, this girl sounds like a _choice _selection."

"No!" I snap, maybe too quickly.

He laughs, euphoric off my slip up and his resulting win. "See! You so like her."

"God, Dennison, you're such a moron!" I shove at his arm, making him miss his next shot. The ball ricochets off the wall and into the washing machine. "Hypothetically speaking, let's say I was remotely attracted to her, alright? Even if I was, there would be like no chance of a hook-up. She obviously hates me, and my mom is best friends with her mom which is beyond creepy. I mean, what kind of person is willingly best friends with a psycho like my mother, and do I really want to be into said person's offspring?"

"I get your point." He rubs at the back of his neck. "So just forget about her. There are plenty of other alluring, if not just as alluring, fish in the aquarium that is L.A., right? Let me take you out to Gray tonight. I'll introduce you to that girl that's been asking about you nonstop since she saw you last weekend. Trust when I say that she's smoking. I'm sure you two can come up with ways to take your mind off this Spencer chick and if not, I'd be more than happy to contribute to the suggestion box." He gives me a cheesy smile. His attempt is comforting.

"Thanks, Aiden," I sigh, resting my chin on his shoulder. "Have I told you that you're, like, the best?"

"Yep." He ruffles my hair and smoothes it down to give the top of my head a brotherly kiss, and with that, Operation Forget Spencer Carlin is underway.


	2. This Is Spencer

Gray's packed with people, last-minute partiers intent on getting as much brain mushing done before the launch of the fall semester. Without social gatherings like these, fake IDs and copious amounts of liquor, teachers would be out of jobs. School and summer vacations are very codependent. Summer mushifies, deadens, dulls, weakens—whatever--the mind, and school is there to mold it back into a respectable state. Got it?

Aiden is good on his word. My stalker, Gabby, is _mui_ hot. She's trying so very hard to impress me and although her attempt fails to make its mark, the semi-degrading way she's throwing herself at me does much to turn me on. Her lips graze my earlobe as she says something dirty to me. Honestly, the music is way too loud to make out her words, but I imagine them to be indecent because of the way she's giggling. I'm about to form a response when I see my mother stalking towards my table, Spencer trailing awkwardly behind her. _How many rails did I bump?_ I must be more gacked than I thought.

But it's not a drug-induced delusion because my very corporeal mother clamps her hand around my forearm and drags me into the bathroom. "Oh for God's sake, are you high?" She's peeping into my eyes, no doubt referring to my dilated pupils.

"Get with the times, Mom," I laugh. "We call it spun, twa—"

I'm cut off by a slap to the face. I don't register the pain, just a loud clap and the fact that her palm is colder than the precious metals and stones of her ornate jewelry. I hear Spencer suck in a quick inhale from somewhere behind me. "I can't deal with you right now, Ashley. Not like this," she hisses. "You're embarrassing me." She catches her reflection in the mirror and straightens her blouse.

"No, Mom, you're embarrassing yourself. You could never deal with me so cut the bullshit. What do you want?"

Her face tightens up worse than when she gets her Botox treatment. "I'm leaving town for a few days. Your grandmother is ill, not that you'd care. I need you to act the part of capable hostess while I'm away. Do you think you can manage to pull yourself together, Ashley?"

"Tell Grandma I said hi."

She eyes me and nods her head at Spencer. "I'll see you next week," she says to her. "If you have any problems with Ashley, any at all, please feel free to contact me. I want to apologize for her behavior in advance." And then her noisy heels carry her further and further away until it's just silence and self-hatred flooding this space.

I forget Spencer's in the room with me until I hear her shuffle around. She clears her throat. "Are you okay?" she asks. She looks sympathetic and uncomfortable at the same time.

The tenderness in her eyes unsettles me. "Let's get a few things straight," I snap. "I'm going to be here for a while so don't get in my way. If you want a few drinks, I'll vouch for you, but that'll be the extent of my hospitality. Are we clear?"

She stiffens, and the tenderness is gone. "And to think, for a few seconds I actually felt sorry for you."

"That's where you're wrong. I don't need anyone to feel sorry for me. _Especially_ not you."

I force myself out of the potentially explosive situation and head back to the table where Gabby and Aiden are seated. "Do you have anymore shit? I need another rail." I'm talking to Gabby of course. A part from alcohol and the occasional blunt, Aiden's drug free.

Gabby hands over her snuff bullet. It's glittery and peppered with stickers of cute fruit, mainly strawberries and cherries. "As much as you want, baby," she purrs, playing with my hair. "I get it cheap. My cousin's a cook," she says it like it should impress me. It doesn't. See, I'm plugged into every cog and wheel of the drug trafficking trade, from king pins, to cooks and farmers, to large time buyers, to middle men and corner pushers, and everyone else in-between. State your poison and I've got a connect. As far as quality goes, Gabby's shit is mediocre. And price? That's just not an issue.

Aiden frowns as I twist the dial, loading the chamber. It burns my nose in, but the drip tastes like fruit punch. It's probably been flavored with Kool-Aid. "Ash, take it easy," he pleads. "I think you've had enough."

"I don't," is all I say. Aiden's worry is not misplaced. There's a solid reason why I try to limit my drug intake. After a binge, I'm scathingly cranky and 'flipping psychotic, man'—his words, not mine. Okay, I'll admit I can get kind of testy. I've been arrested for getting caught up in car chases, fights and general domestic disturbances, and a few months ago, twacked out of my mind and all rational thought, I was so confident of my invincibility that I flung myself off my friend Jasmine's house. I only managed to dislocate my leg and break a couple fingers. The bruising and scrapes were icing and sprinkles on the hellish cupcake that is my life. When the paramedics arrived, I was laughing my ass off, too amped off speed and adrenaline to feel the pain. If it wasn't my drug of choice, I'd have kicked it a long while ago.

I fill the chamber and snort some more to spite him _and_ Spencer, who's sitting at a corner table. Spencer sticks out like a lady in a room full of whores. There's no pretense about it, Spencer looks like the minor that she is. Apparently, some of the people here tonight are into that because I've watched her fend off three advances. A guy in a sleazy suit just won't let up. He comes back with two drinks. She shakes her head and he takes a seat. He scoots his chair closer. Spencer's eyes dart around the club and finally land on mine. They scream 'help me,' so that's what I do.

"Leave, asshole," I growl at Mr. Sleazy. His eyes dart from me to Spencer, and back. "Are you retarded?" I ask. "You must be if you think that this girl is legal, or are you just a perv?"

"Uh, sorry. I didn't, um," he mumbles as he scrambles away, tail tucked between his legs.

"Come on," I tell Spencer, cutting off her stuttery 'thank you'. "I can't have fun if you're in constant danger of becoming a rape statistic."

She follows me to the table and weakly waves at Gabby and Aiden before ducking her head and taking the only other empty seat. "This is Spencer," I introduce. I steal a sip of Aiden's drink.

I see his face light up over the rim of the glass. "So, where are you from?" he asks.

"Ohio," she says. "My family's moving to Los Angeles in a few weeks."

He nods his head, pretending like it's old news. "Cool. How's Ashley been treating you?"

Spencer's face flames up. "She's—"

"Don't answer that," I warn. "Aiden, shut up."

Gabby's feeling my leg up under the table. She's batting her best bedroom eyes at me. If Spencer wasn't here, I'd have taken the bait and excused myself to go fuck her in one of the bathroom stalls. Spencer's noticed Gabby's forwardness. I've caught her shooting me questioning looks, like she's trying to figure me out. I can't take sitting still anymore. I need to move. The speed in my system fuels my restlessness. I grab Spencer's arm and tug her with me. "We have to book. I told my mom I'd have Cinderella home before she turns back into a pumpkin--or something like that." I ignore Gabby's shattered face, and peck Aiden on the cheek. "I'll call you," I say.

"Bye, Spencer," he yells after us. "It was nice meeting you!"


End file.
